leave a little mark on something, maybe
by celaenos
Summary: "A storm when she arrives, and a storm when she leaves. It's poetic." Moriarty arrives at the brownstone with a bullet wound in her shoulder, and invites herself to stay for a few days. (Joaniarty Week: Domestic/Sick Injured prompt)


She shows up during the middle of one of the worst thunderstorms of the summer. Joan notes the irony in that, and chooses not to comment on it. Largely because of the blood pouring out of her shoulder.

"Sherlock!" Joan calls out, "we have a visitor, and I need some hot water, towels, and for you to call 911!"

"No!" Moriarty insists, "there is no need to involve the authorities. It's merely a flesh wound, which I happen to know you possess the skills to patch up for me." she smiles weakly at Joan, her breathing already erratic. Coming out in short, tense bursts. She is masking her pain rather well Joan thinks. She reaches out and takes hold of Moriarty's uninjured right arm, leading her into the house. Sherlock comes bounding down the stairs, towels in his hand, and confusion all over his face that twists into a frown when he catches sight of Moriarty leaning against Joan's frame.

"Well... enjoying your time out of prison are you?" He asks cheekily.

Joan pushes Moriarty down into a kitchen chair and hold her hands out for the towels. "Get hot water." She orders and rips the hole already in Moriarty's shirt larger so she what the damage is.

"The bullet went through." Moriarty says through gritted teeth. Joan ignores her and washes her hands thoroughly before checking to be sure that the bullet is indeed gone. She's not about to take anything Moriarty says on her word.

"This is a nasty wound, the bullet shredded your arm on the way out."

"Ah, yes I felt it thank you." Moriarty's eyes are drooping slightly, and she is paler than Joan would like. She turns and shares a look with Sherlock, they really should take her to a hospital, she's lost quite a lot of blood. Moriarty can see it in her eyes, doesn't ever seem to miss anything. "Just need to be stitched up." She insists.

Joan sighs, this cannot be her life. Stitching up rouge criminals who drop by whenever they please. The problem being, Joan can't just sit by and _not_ help her; which she suspects is why Moriarty came to her in the first place. Joan picks up latex gloves and yanks them on, the only painkillers she keeps in the brownstone are in her medical bag. She gets two and holds them out to Moriarty. She tilts her head, and with great effort, raises her hand and sloppily shoves them into her mouth. Joan hold the water glass up for her, there isn't any need for her to dump it all over herself and the floor.

"Are there about to be any number of assassins on the way to our home?" Sherlock asks tersely, handing over the hydrogen peroxide to Joan. Moriarty simply glares at him as if he should know better. Frankly, Joan thinks it's a sensible question.

Moriarty hisses slightly as Joan pours the hydrogen peroxide on the bullet wound. But once Joan starts the stitches, the only sign that she might be in any pain is her right hand clenched into a fist. Even then, Joan isn't sure that she's not doing that just for show. Sherlock makes tea while Joan focuses on her task, too bewildered by the fact that this isn't the first time she has had to perform some kind of home surgery. Or even the second.

Joan ties off the stitches and covers them with two bandages. Moriarty is holding herself together impressively, but she is in desperate need of some sleep and fluids. "Is someone coming to collect you?" Joan asks. Moriarty only shakes her head as Sherlock places some tea in front of her. Joan shares a look with him, they could call Marcus, but technically Moriarty is free and clear. The bullet wound in her shoulder clearly gives off the air of some sort of illegal activity, but she's not sure Marcus could really do much. Joan sighs, "she's not allowed to sleep in my bed, and she needs to drink a lot of water." she rises and packs her things back into the medical bag and drops her gloves into the trash, gathering up the bloody towels. "And I will need to change those tonight, double check to make sure it doesn't look infected." Moriarty has the gall to smile treacherously at her. "If anyone else shows up with gunshot wounds, or actual guns, I'm calling 911." Joan goes upstairs, leaving Sherlock to figure out what to do with her for now.

…

…

Once Joan is done cleaning up the towels, she decides to read a few chapters of her latest book from the library. Any free time she has to herself is to be cherished and taken advantage of. Eventually, her stomach betrays her, and she heads down to the kitchen in search of lunch. She sees the door to Sherlock's room is ajar, Moriarty sound asleep on the bed. Sherlock himself is sitting on top of the living room table, testing a new lock behind his back.

"This feels oddly similar to the last time she stayed here." He whispers loudly. Joan frowns, he might as well just talk normally for all the good that is doing. "Except I was in love with her then, and she was lying to us both." He grimaces and twists his body, digging into the lock. "I meant to give her the couch, but for some reason, I offered the bed."

Joan pulls out ingredients for a turkey sandwich, "because you're a good person. Which, she knows and is probably taking advantage of." She shrugs, and spreads some mayo and spicy mustard on the bread. "Why do you think she came here? Surely she's got people whose job it is to sew her up and find her a place to lie low."

"Perhaps she's low on lieutenants from her brief stint in jail. That or..." he growls and finally frees his hands, grinning and jumping down from the table. Walking over to Joan while rubbing his wrists. "she is toying with us. I haven't heard from her in months, have you?"

_Yes._ Joan thinks, but she just shrugs and shakes her head a little, not quite a no. She compiles her sandwich and sits down across from Sherlock.

"Hum, well, she is clearly injured. She's not faking that, unless she shot herself in the arm, but the trajectory of the wound is all off for that to be a possibility. It is alright with me for her to recover here for the next day or so, if it's alright with you. I'm not thrilled by it, but I am curious as to why she's here. But if you'd rather we send her on her way when she wakes up, that's fine."

They should. Joan _should_ want that. She shouldn't be... excited (not quite the right word) to see Moriarty again. Shouldn't be curious about the letter she's kept tucked away in a book Sherlock would never bother to open. Confused by the things she's been thinking since the last time they both saw Moriarty. Joan knows better than to get involved with anything regarding Moriarty, especially a gunshot victim Moriarty, but she finds herself nodding and swallowing her bite of sandwich. "She can stay."

Sherlock looks at her for a moment, then nods and stands, off to tinker with more locks. He'll be occupied all afternoon, if not well into the night. Joan finishes her lunch and cleans up, "eat something." she calls out, knowing he will most likely forget otherwise. She sees Moriarty stirring out of the corner of her eye and picks up the tea tray, going into Sherlock's room. Moriarty sits up with a small wince and then smiles at Joan. It's predatory and sends a shiver down Joan's spine. She passes over the tea cup and stands there awkwardly near the large bed. "Are you hungry?"

"A little."

"Do you eat turkey sandwiches?"

Moriarty sips her tea primly. It's annoying that she can manage to look put together with a hole in her shoulder, messy hair, wearing one of Sherlock's old t-shirts and sweats, but she does. "I could."

Joan just nods and walks out of the room, happy to have something to do with her hands. She's intently aware of Moriarty watching her from Sherlock's bed and makes the sandwich up as quickly as she can. When she walks back with it, Moriarty thanks her and pats the side of the bed. No part of Joan wants to sit down and chat with this woman, but she finds herself doing so anyway. She can't hear Sherlock banging around anymore, he must have gone downstairs.

"How are you Joan?" Moriarty asks casually. As if she doesn't have a gunshot wound in her shoulder, isn't a criminal that Joan helped incarcerate; and they are just friends who haven't seen each other in a few months.

Joan laughs bitterly, "oh I'm dandy how are you?"

"Dandy?" Moriarty smirks, "what a lovely word. It is good to see you are well, you never answered my letter. I was worried."

"I'm _sure_ you were." Joan mutters, then asks "why are you here?"

"I've been shot." Moriarty says matter-of-factly.

"Yes, and I'm sure you've got people who can take care of that for you."

Moriarty nods and takes another bite of her sandwich, "I do indeed. One of them is sitting across from me now."

"No." Joan says firmly. "I am _not_ one of your employees. You can't just drop by here for free medical assistance. Go to a hospital, or bleed out next time." She stands up and stalks out of the bedroom, pausing in the doorframe when Moriarty speaks.

"I missed you both." she says softly, "you most of all Joan."

Joan whips her head around angrily, "you don't miss people. For that you'd have to care about them. You're not capable of that. Not the way normal people are. You wouldn't be able to do the things you do otherwise."

Moriarty only smiles,"there you go, telling me how I feel again. Remember what I told you before? You'd be surprised what I'd do for love. It has been a while since you've seen me, I've changed quite a bit in that time."

"You're still a murderer. Nothing else about you really matters."

"Does it?" Moriarty asks, with a look on her face that Joan can't discern. Rather than answer, she leaves, feeling unsettled and itchy.

…

…

When Joan checks on Moriarty's bandages later that night, she doesn't say a word. It's disconcerting. Sherlock hasn't stopped tinkering with his locks all day, and doesn't even look up when Joan sets a bowl of spaghetti down in front of him. Joan sort of expected him to have more of a problem with Moriarty being here. Or at the very least, be more interested in _why_. But he hasn't mentioned a thing since this afternoon.

Joan gives Moriarty some more painkillers, leaves her a glass of water, and goes up to bed. She spends the entire night in a sleepless fit. When she pads downstairs sometime around three am, she finds Sherlock passed out half on the couch, half off, a broken apart lock in his hands. Joan takes it away and covers him with a blanket. The door to his room is still open, and Joan peers in; Moriarty is curled up on her right side, looking as angelic and as much like a normal human being as she ever has.

Joan goes back upstairs and lies in her bed until she finally falls asleep.

…

…

When she wakes again, it's nearly noon. It's rare that Sherlock is ever quiet enough where she can sleep in past nine, so Joan is immediately wary. Her first assumption is that Moriarty has killed him, but she would probably already be dead too, so Joan tip toes downstairs, poised to run at any threat she sees, feeling ridiculous. Instead, she freezes at the sight of Moriarty standing over the stovetop, making herself an omelet with her good arm. Sherlock nowhere to be found.

"Ah, Joan!" Moriarty greets her cheerfully. "I've only just woken up myself, Sherlock went out... something about a man named Randy having an emergency?" She sips a cup of tea or coffee, Joan can't tell from this far across the room. "He made it very clear if he were to come home and find you with so much as a scratch on your body I would be very sorry for it. Which seems rather paranoid considering _I'm_ the injured one. But nevertheless, I agreed. Would you like an omelet?"

Joan is too dumbfounded by the air of domesticity _Jamie Moriarty_ has in her kitchen. Still with some blood in her hair, dressed in Sherlock's clothes, nursing one arm and cooking breakfast with the other. Somehow, _Joan _feels like the slob when she glances down to her large Mets t-shirt and sleep shorts. She's already too hot in them, the summer has been relentless.

"I'm... going to take a shower." Joan backs away, to Moriarty's apparent disappointment.

"Shall I make you one anyway? For when you've finished?"

"Uh... sure." Joan says, and escapes back upstairs to her bathroom. She takes a quick shower, uncomfortable with the thought of an unsupervised Moriarty having free reign of the brownstone. Joan tugs on a tank top and cotton shorts—too hot for anything else—and twists her wet hair up into a bun so it doesn't stick to her bare shoulders. Then she heads downstairs after grabbing her phone from it's charger. There are two new messages from Sherlock.

'_Watson, cmi if problem. Randy had 911, something w gf. bb soon.'_

_'use steak knife if necessary.'_

Joan sighs at his horrible texting and just shoots off an, 'okay' in return as she walks down the stairs. Why he thinks she would be any good at grabbing a steak knife and going off at Moriarty, she has no idea. Joan's not stupid enough to try that. If Moriarty wants her dead, most likely, she'll die. She supposes she might have more of a chance at defending herself with Moriarty injured; but not by much.

Speak of the devil, Moriarty is currently sitting at the kitchen table, an empty plate pushed to her side, mug in front of her, holding the newspaper out with one hand attempting to read it; a frown etched onto her face. There is a plate across from her, nearly perfect omelet and a steaming mug of coffee. Joan hesitates, then lowers herself down into the seat.

"Good afternoon," Moriarty says without looking up from the article she is reading. "Sleep well?"

Joan wants to laugh, it's just so... strange. Making pleasantries or whatever Moriarty is attempting to do, when this is anything but normal. "No." She says, and out of habit asks "did you?"

"Not particularly well no, but thank you."

Joan makes herself busy with eating. It's _delicious_, and she finds herself slightly annoyed by that fact. By the time Joan is done eating, Moriarty has pushed aside the newspaper, obviously not pleased by whatever she has just read. Her anger makes Joan nervous, "if you want to shower, I can change your bandages again after." She offers, trying to take Moriarty's mind off whatever it is that has gone and gotten her angry.

She sucks in a breath, then her spine straightens and a tight smile slips onto her face. "Thank you, should I keep the bandages dry?"

"Try, but it's alright if they get a little damp."

Moriarty nods, but doesn't move to get up. She stares off into the distance quietly while Joan sits there, propping one knee up and sipping her coffee. Moriarty knew exactly how to make it. Joan hasn't ever told her how she takes her coffee.

The oddly comfortable silence is broken a few moments later when Moriarty speaks, her gaze still directed away from Joan. "You never answered my letter." It's not a question, but Joan knows she wants an explanation all the same.

"Did you actually think I would?"

"Sherlock did."

"Well... Sherlock spent the better part of two years in love with a woman you created out of nothingness. The two of you have history."

"And the two of us don't?" Moriarty turns to her now, total blank expression on her face. Joan has no idea if she's still angry or not. "I would think the woman who had a hand—if not more—in having me incarcerated where lessors have tried countless times over the years would be important to me, no?"

"I think you give me too much credit."

Moriarty's lips tick up in amusement. "I think I don't give you enough." She rolls her good shoulder, neatly folding up the newspaper. "Habit I suppose. I've still yet to figure you out."

"Well... I'm not about to help you along."

Moriarty's lips slip into a full smirk now, and she rises, setting her plate gently down in the sink and turning back to Joan. "Oh, my dear Watson, you already are." She walks up the stairs leaving Joan sitting at the kitchen table, disconcerted and angry.

She doesn't move until she hears the shower turn on. Then she stands and rinses the dishes in the sink, turning the radio on to fill the stilted silence encompassing the brownstone. She goes about cleaning up the kitchen, then moves to the living room just for something to do. Usually, she refuses to clean up after Sherlock, especially now that she is his partner, but she needs something to do with her hands. Just as she has gotten all the locks, broken pieces and screws all shoved into one corner of the room, Moriarty descends the stairs. She has helped herself to one of Joan's tank tops—sans bra Joan notes with a hint of embarrassment—and a pair of Sherlock's shorts that must have been upstairs somewhere. Her wet blonde hair is dripping on the wood floor as she half-heartedly attempts to towel it dry.

"I took a few more painkillers, and borrowed a top, I do hope you don't mind."

Joan bites the inside of her cheek and motions for her to sit down on the footrest in front of her. Joan doesn't take as much care as she should peeling the bandages off, and she hates herself instantly for it. That's not who she is. She makes a great effort to be gentle after that. "It's not infected, keep it clean, put Neosporin on it and change the bandages every night. The stitches will need to come out in about... two or three weeks. But otherwise, congratulations, you'll live to torment the criminal underbelly of the world another day."

Moriarty chuckles and Joan can feel her body shaking underneath her fingers.

"Would you be so kind as to brush my hair? I tried myself, but it wasn't particularly easy with my left hand. I'm not _quite_ as ambidextrous as Sherlock."

Joan suspects that is a lie. "How long are you planning on staying here?" She asks.

"I'll be out of your hair tonight Joan."

Surprised, Joan takes the brush offered to her anyways and gently tugs it through Moriarty's hair. It's a ridiculous and frivolous thought, but Joan likes it this shorter length. It suits her. She shakes her head at the stupid thought and tries to finish her task as quickly as possible.

"You kept my letter." Moriarty says softly when Joan is nearly done.

Joan's hands still. "Of _course_ you went through my room." She says bitterly and yanks the brush through the last few locks before stepping away from Moriarty.

"I required a shirt." Moriarty shrugs, and Joan's eyes drop down to her chest at the movement of their own volition. She snaps them back up the second she hears a small chuckle. Her face reddening.

"Yes, I'm sure my _books_ looked like a dresser full of clothes."

Moriarty only shrugs again. Joan rolls her eyes and stalks into the kitchen, getting herself a glass of water.

"I find you interesting, you clearly dislike me; yet you are drawn to me as I am to you."

Joan snorts, "_no_."

"Insist on trying to hide it all you like Watson, the fact that you kept my letter speaks volumes." Joan doesn't really have an answer for that one. She honestly isn't sure _why_ she kept the letter in the first place. She has almost thrown it out countless times, even started to burn it once before changing her mind and stamping it out immediately. Moriarty obviously knows this if she has seen the slightly charred letter.

Joan jumps when she realizes Moriarty has come up right behind her. "I wouldn't harm you Joan." She says softly, her nipples hard, pressing up against Joan's shoulder through the thin tank top material. "I did promise Sherlock after all." She brushes a stray hair out of Joan's face and she shivers at the contact. Goosebumps forming on her arms, Joan wants to jump back. Run upstairs. But she remains stock still. Moriarty leans down, her lips hovering right next to Joan's ear, her breath warm on Joan's skin. "I wouldn't harm you." She repeats, and then she's gone. Slipped into Sherlock's room and shut the door, leaving Joan shaken and confused. She stands there on unsteady legs for a moment, then downs her glass of water in nearly one gulp and goes up to her bedroom for the rest of the afternoon.

…

…

Joan hears Sherlock come home sometime before dinner, she remains in her room, trying—and failing—to immerse herself in her book. When she gives up the clock reads 7:37pm and she begrudgingly heads downstairs.

"Watson! I was just about to come retrieve you, Detective Bell called, we've a case! Change quickly if you're going to."

Joan looks around in confusion, "where's Moriarty?"

"She's gone off, some bloke in a black town car came to collect her not an hour ago." He's puttering around with the locks again, "are you changing or shall we leave now?"

"She's... she just left?"

Sherlock looks up at her, finally calm, "she did. I suspect it won't be the last we see of her though. Changing? Yes? No? Murder waits for no one Watson."

"I... I... yes. Just give me three minutes." Joan stammers, then turns and quickly jogs back upstairs. She feels just as jolted by Moriarty leaving than she had at her arriving. Joan yanks off her shorts and pulls on a light skirt and top instead. Keeping her hair up off her neck—the night air hasn't cooled down at all yet—she grabs her purse and phone just as thunder cracks in the distance.

A storm when she arrives, and a storm when she leaves. It's poetic.

Joan runs down the stairs and follows a bouncy, restless Sherlock out the door, jumping into the cab he has already hailed as the rain starts pouring. It's then that she notices she's got a new text message.

_'Thank you for the help.'_

The number is blocked. But she doesn't need to guess who it's from. She almost replies 'your welcome' out of sheer habit, but stops herself and clicks her phone off instead. Thank god they have a case to focus on.

…

…

Three weeks later, an unmarked letter arrives for Joan, looking almost identical to the first she received months ago. She contemplates not even opening it. Throwing it right into the trash and never thinking about it again. But Moriarty was right about a lot of things, and Joan _is_ just as curious about her as Sherlock.

The letter is short, revealing almost nothing apart from an address scribbled down at the bottom where Joan can respond at her leisure.

Joan holds a lighter up underneath this letter too; but after a solid minute of letting the flame flicker, heating up her fingers painfully, she snaps it shut and picks up a pen.


End file.
